Like impossibly thin glass
by ohmygodwritersblock
Summary: - Sherlock aches for John with all the particles of his being. - The merging and falling apart of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.
1. Chapter 1

**This is dedicated to the wonderful ArthurDent2, to whom I promised some fluff, to prove to her that I could write it.**

**Well this is for you, ArthurDent2 (that rhymed, I'm a poet and I didn't even know it). Perhaps save reading it until after the next chapter is posted because I promised you fluff and it hasn't exactly happened yet. FLUFF IS SO DIFFICULT TO WRITE. But I promise, you asked for fluff and I shall deliver. At some point.**

**I mean, I was going to get it done with one chapter and then it sort of ended itself, you know how that happens. But I know what happen's next so don't be mad at me, it'll get done.**

* * *

There's an occasional car the breaks the silence, rumbling past, the brief hum skating over the road outside. Sherlock stretches further across the fabric of the couch, tipping his quarrel of curls out over the carpet, long neck curving parallel to the floor. His eyes shine slightly in the darkness, reflecting the glow of the lamp in the corner that tints the night with a warm yellow. He draws in a sigh, back arching above the cushions, toes drumming light rhythms that are lost in the plush of the couch.

A drawn out exhale in the emptiness.

Sherlock tugs the loose cotton of his dressing gown around himself from where it had slipped off one pale shoulder. He rustles among the cushions, tossing and turning, the noise of each movement grating in the space, hanging in between his breaths. They catch the particles of the air and hold them like moments, gripping them even as they slip away.

The stillness is beginning to fray the edges of his mind.

He knows what he needs. He feels it in the vacant space between his arms, the shrill ringing of nothing but the city traffic ricocheting off the grid of buildings. He feels the absence of another's weight as keenly as if it already lay inside his chest. He needs John.

His bare feet hit the floor as soon as the thought if fully formed and he pads silently up the stairs. He pauses at the door to John's room, before spreading his fingers out over the wood and swinging the door open with as little pressure as possible. He doesn't breath for a few seconds, revelling in the emptiness of his chest and the way John's lethargic breaths weigh in the air. Then, his feet slide forward, he's captivated by the way the moonlight lies a soft hand across the steady rise and fall of John's shoulders. Sherlock moves towards him, hand extended over the sun-darkened skin and pauses just before the point of contact. The possibility of connection, of the warmth of John's skin hovers in the stillness and he _aches_ for him. For his touch. He aches for the physical presence of John from his fingertips, to his throat, where it nestles there like something rough and choking, to his knees, which threaten to give out and thud against the chipped varnish of the floor, threaten to disturb the peace that surrounds this space like impossibly thin glass. Sherlock aches for John with all the particles of his being.

But touching him will pull this world apart, John's coarse inhales, the scent of tea, and wool, and sleep. So Sherlock folds himself close, huddling against the bed until he knees are pulled up against his chest and his back is pressed against the hard glint of the metal bedframe and he sits, unmoving. Watching the loose curl of John's hand that has slipped off the edge of the bed in his sleep, scarcely breathing as the callused palm wrinkles with rolling folds with each twitch, each clench of muscles. The fingers are slack, resting halfway open and in this moment, in this exact moment, where everything has stopped and perhaps the world keeps moving but for this eternity there is nothing but this room, Sherlock wants nothing more than to intertwine their fingers, to watch his own palm slip over John's and have them fit perfectly together. But that would be a violation, he is already pushing the limits just being here, close to John, because this room is so expressly John's, no taint of Sherlock's mess has reached beyond this door. This is John undisturbed, merged with none of Sherlock's inherent madness, his chaos. This is something that should belong purely to John. But it doesn't. It doesn't and Sherlock knows this, he knows that he is upsetting this as if vandalising something sacred. But he can't stop. He has to be close to John, to have as much of John's life as he can, and that is why John can never know about these thoughts, these feelings. Because Sherlock would take him over completely and utterly and never let him look back. And then John would leave. John would leave and Sherlock would be so very broken.

So Sherlock sits and lets the bed frame bruise his back, and he watches the trusting emptiness of John's hand relax and clench around nothing.

* * *

**Yes, okay. That was slightly angsty. But there was no death or self harm or anything like that so I didn't reaaaally bend the rules too much. I promise THERE SHALL BE FLUFF!**

**Love you lots sweetie. x **


	2. Chapter 2

**Yeah so I made a super big deal about all this being fluff. But then a few people asked for continued angst, and who am I to deny them?**

**Exactly.**

* * *

He doesn't fall asleep.

He sits there for the entirety of the night, watching the light of the moon's eyes reflect across the bare floor. He draws patterns in the grooves of the wood with his mind, tilts his head back against the bed and imagines that he can feel a softness, the barest touch of fingertips against his cheek. Breaths in, breaths out. In sync with John's heavy sighs.

Once, just once, John almost wakes. There's a shift in his breathing, and Sherlock tenses, freezes. Fingers curling to make crescent moons, indented in the heel of his palm.

But no, nothing. The sandpaper inhalations deepen, smooth out, and Sherlock is left among the silent whispers of could-have-beens. He tells himself that it doesn't matter.

Across the glint of the floorboards, Sherlock draws with one drooping finger, traces his profile, makes himself a silhouette, and beside him, John. They lean together, silent images making silent scenes of them both, and a shadow of John's hand, the one hanging immobile beside him, reaches up to brush a curl away from Sherlock's forehead. Lips meet lips and one imaginary shadow melds to the other and they draw so close that there is no seam of light between them. Sherlock's eyebrows draw down, eyes close tight, and he purses his lips, tries to rid them of an impossible taste.

They appear fully formed, the words. They seem to materialize in the air in front of him, a sharp parody to the silence. _I love you._

They're not spoken, but they hang like cigarette smoke just behind his lips, and he breaths them out into the air, "I love you."

He stops. He doesn't blink, doesn't move. There is nothing. Nothing at all.

He says it again, rough and wanting and utterly hopeless, "I love you."

But there is not shift in the atmosphere, no rustle of bedsheets. The air screams in the silence of an unanswering voice.

He thinks he can say it one more time, one more time and then he will forget about it, keep it away. One more time and it will be gone. But it catches in his throat, the sound, it can't make it past the jagged edges of sobs stuck tight in his throat. He tries once, twice. It doesn't some, so he swallows it down again.

It sits heavy in the bottom of his chest.

* * *

**If you're all disappointed at the loss of sweetness in this, go take a look at my only other fluff story ****_All the best it could be. _****for some platonic Johnlock sweetness. That's what I wrote to make up for this.**

**And I also have a teenlock that hasn't turned angsty yet. You can check that out (actually this is pretty much just shameless promoting) its called ****_Knowing Sherlock Holmes _****though that should turn angsty in a couple of chapters. Enjoy it while you can.**


	3. Chapter 3

**I needed to write angst but my heart wasn't in it. **

**I just can't find it within myself to make them suffer today. **

***too much**

**sorry**

* * *

The room is drowning in the burning, rusted orange of sunrise, Sherlock along with it. The frosted air has woven threads around the bones of his fingers and pulled tight, and they're numb and fumbling as he stands, back aching as the far off traffic of the morning bounces inside the room. He trips just as he makes it out the door, bare feet heavy with disuse, and dumb in the cold.

The entire flat is devoid of heating, and puffs of air drift out over his tongue like ghosts and they dissipate, chill lingering over dry lips. There's no one, nothing moves but the swift pad of the soles of Sherlock's feet and the door slams in the aching silence.

He moves down the stairs like the melting of ice, and then he greets the flush of sky that sets dark silhouettes of buildings aflame. He sighs as he leans against the doorframe, rubs his hands together in the chill and flexes bony toes against the roughness of grungy concrete. He steps out into the street, the buzz and hum of life thrumming between the buildings and the weight in the bottom of his stomach rests with darkness like solid smoke. And so he sinks to the floor, pulling the door shut as he goes, blinking against the deafening noise of his mind. And he tries very, very hard not to think.

And that's why he misses a second set of footsteps easing down the staircase, John's joints loose with sleep. The door swings open, and John, bleary eyed and hair in twisted dishevelment, looks around the door, and then sighs, opening it fully. "Sherlock, come inside."

"Get me a cigarette." Is the reply that drops into the air, head tilted back against the side of the building, eyes slammed shut.

John's forehead wrinkles, and he runs a quick hand over his face, inhale, exhale. He reaches down to grab Sherlock's arm, and doesn't notice the flinch that barely surfaces as the man lets himself be pulled up. "Come on, I'll make you tea."

They sit in silence on either side of the kitchen table, tea smoothing in tendrils through the air. Sherlock doesn't look at John, he focuses instead on the rings his fingers make in the scalding heat of his tea. He shakes his hand out over the table and the droplets sink down into the wood, drown.

John watches him, eyelids drooping with sleep, and he gets up all in one push and rolls his shoulder as he pads out of the room. Sherlock still hasn't moved, hasn't looked up, he just stares at the swirl of his tea with dark eyes.

* * *

**soooooo**

**This was constructed between the loading of Supernatural episodes. It was meant to be longer, better, and originally, I was meant to be writing another chapter for ****_Knowing Sherlock Holmes._**

**_Buuuuuuuuuuuuuut..._**

**_I would like to thank all of you for your wonderful reviews, your follows, and your favorites. Y'all are wonderful people. _**

**More angst is on the way though, you can count on that.**

**xx**


	4. Chapter 4

**This was supposed to be the last chapter. **

**Ha. Ha. Ha.**

**Like that was going to happen.**

**I'll try and wrap it up with the next one.**

**So, not as much angst as I was hoping for, but it is waiting just around the corner. **

**This chapter is dedicated to BlackPaperMoon82462 cause yeah, I like you.**

**The next chapter will be pretty much dedicated to you as well, because you guess sort of what was going to happen. I mean like, you're way off because there's no fluff, but yeah.**

**So this is for you.**

**And for everyone else who is wonderful and supportive and amazing and adorable and lots of other adjectives that I spent on writing this.**

* * *

John reappears a few seconds later, walks in, sets his jaw, walks out, and then pokes his head around the corner to catch Sherlock's gaze. Sherlock knows exactly what is going on. Danger Night. John feels an obligation to look after him as he would a small child. John has to spend time worrying about him, keeping track of him. Sherlock is less of a friend than a nuisance that John feels a need to care for out of through a twisted obligation of loyalty.

"Sherlock, we both know you're not going to sleep."

He's right about that. "Its not a Danger Night." He spits. "I don't need you watching my every move."

John sighs, short and quick and low, and Sherlock doesn't need this. "Go to sleep John." He commands this at the table, doesn't meet John's eyes, hasn't yet. He doesn't promise anything, doesn't say 'I can take care of myself' because he knows that he's said that so many times and it ended with John running to save him. It ended with guns and shouts and hands entwined in a sick embrace with ropes and blood and rough skin.

And John's chin comes up, Sherlock can see it out of the corner of his eye, but he sees it in his mind even more clearly, stubble lining the contours of his jaw and eyebrows drawn tight. "I intend to do that."

Sherlock raises an eyebrow at the table and leaves it at that.

John clears his throat, nervous about something, doesn't shift though. He's standing his ground. "But so will you."

And then dark eyes meet brighter ones, and John's form is highlighted by the smooth greyness of the sitting room as the cold of London eases itself into the plush chairs to stay a while. Neither of them shivers, but Sherlock can see the tightening of John's shoulders under the crumpled fabric of his flimsy shirt.

He rises slowly, almost unsure in their stillness, and the air is heavy with a feeling that might taste of iron.

John holds his gaze, needing him to understand because he won't say it outloud himself, and this time he doesn't touch Sherlock, doesn't lead him by the arm, and Sherlock hates that there's this wide nothingness between them, and he hates that when he pulls the covers of the bed up and slips in next to John, that the bed smells only of him, because John still doesn't bring him into his room. Instead, he takes what is Sherlock's, branding himself into the tilt and curl of Sherlock's bed.

Sherlock watches the curve of John's back and lies the weight of himself over his hands, in case they wander out to trace the lines of everything before him.

And he doesn't relax, doesn't let himself mould to his own bed.

They lie there for a while, Sherlock might've counted the seconds if he wasn't spending all of them on these moments where John is in his bed and he still can't touch but their breaths are muffled by the same silence of each other's presence.

John turns to face him, rolls in the bed and draws in a breath to hold it in his lungs and keep it there, watches as Sherlock blinks once, twice and he does count the seconds. His voice is low and serious and full of dreams lying low above his head. "If you so much as go and get a glass of water, I will know. Don't even try, Sherlock. We've both spend a week on about three hours of sleep and I didn't even know that was possible."

Sherlock's lips almost part to give way to a 'this is hardly necessary, John' but then he presses them tight together because he can't trust John not to leave. He is past caring that John is doing all this out of a need to watch out for Sherlock. A need that is ridiculous and terrifying because that is something that John could die trying to do, he just needs these moments, this time and nothing else. He needs nothing else.

He wants so much though. He wants everything.

John smiles, lines stamping brightness in the corners of his eyes, and he chuckles, "Just a few hours of sleep. Its been years since I've slept in until midday. Let's try and make it."

And so Sherlock smiles back, tilted and stunted and burning, and John yawns wide and rough and his eyes droop shut and Sherlock is left alone.

God, he wants so much.

* * *

**Okay so that's way cliche. Next chapter won't be. Hopefully.**

_**and now... the very first edition of...**_

**WHAT MY ROOMMATES DID THIS WEEK **

**Yeah, cause I'm bored and sometimes life is fun.**

**1. So, there was one memorable episode where One wouldn't let Two out to go to the bathroom and sat against the door for a full 15 minutes, while doing her homework, still against the door. Responses to this included the ransacking of her desk and spilling papers all over the floor, bargaining, groveling, and eventually, Two climbing out of the window and getting into a whole lot of trouble with our Housemistress.**

**2. A synchronized swimming competition on the floor of our dorm, that was filmed. There were several injuries and one long lasting bruise. **

**3. We broke the light switch. Not in the 'oh look the lights won't turn on anymore way' but in the 'Three backed into the wall and stuck her elbow into it resulting in a large hole and the threat of live wires way'. There was yelling and shouting and screaming and we couldn't go to bed. There was quite literally a giant hole in the light switch. No, I don't know how she did it either. We tried to turn the lights off with a doorstop and a toothbrush and failed miserably. My housemistress had to get up on a chair and unscrew all the lightbulbs with the lights still on. Dangerous stuff. Its all fixed now, in case you were wondering. **

**4. While this was going on, I somehow managed to sit on my shower gel and get it everywhere. And I mean like a five inch circle of it on my chair, and then more on the floor, on my school shoes, all over my uniform, and on my clothes. Like red, strawberry scented goop. Fun stuff. This resulted in more laughter and lots of cleaning up to do.**

**5. There were also two piercings done with such practical tools as a safety pin, an ice pack, and some boiling water. **

**6. Five hit Six over the head with a text book and called her some... undesirable names. They apologized later and Six was allowed to punch Five in the face, mostly because Five wanted to have that crucial life experience. I swear to God, myself and Seven pissed ourselves laughing. We all hope that it leaves a bruise (not in the mean way, we love her dearly, and they weren't really mad at each other, but still, it would be badass).**

**So yeah, I'm sure there was more, but these are the most memorable incidents.**

**Tune in next time for...**

**WHAT MY ROOMMATES DID THIS WEEK (OR IN THE TIME SINCE I LAST POSTED)**


	5. Chapter 5

**Yeah no, not the last chapter.**

**Hey, at the end of this, there's swearing in the author's notes, if that offends anyone. Heads up.**

* * *

They lie together in the same bed, and warmth stretches across them to blanket them both and Sherlock has never felt so terrified, and these feelings are pulling the hours so close together that they feel like seconds darting past.

And Sherlock knows he has to say it. He will say it and it will be gone, this feeling. One last time.

Lips part in the silence and even as the room is dark with blocked light, he thinks he can see John watching him, waiting. "John." Nothing, no response.

Breath in, breath out.

"John, I - I need you."

He can't. Long hands grasp at the bedsheets, transferring tremors into the fabric. "I need you."

He's shaking, shuddering, breaths over cobblestones and the roughness of his throat and he rips it out like it can mean what he needs to say, "I need you."

There's the overwhelming need to yell, to scream something long and echoing and have it catch on the inside of his throat and make him bleed, leave a mark. He can't say it. He can't have it be over.

He reaches out, through the drip of inky darkness, to lie a hand along the contours of John's body over the covers. The heat of sleep brands itself across his palm.

And he can't remember how it happens, but he's so close to every smooth exhale of John's, he's almost pressed close to his sleeping form, encased in all his deep warmth.

And he's so sorry.

He stretches his neck long, straining, and brushes his lips across the roughness of John's jaw and pauses at the dip in the corner of his lips.

The world goes blank and Sherlock's eyes flutter closed and stay locked, eyebrows tugged down and he's still trembling and he prays to anything that's listening that John won't wake up and he brushes his lips against John's slack ones.

Its creepy and horrific and there's a struggle to breath and its the best thing that Sherlock has ever experienced. John's lips are chapped and its dark and Sherlock's neck is aching and then there's a sharp waking breath.

"Sherlock?"

* * *

**Ha. Ha. Ha.**

**I'm a bitch.**

**Its super tiny and not that great and Sherlock is being really fucking creepy, but ya know... **

**I did okay on my chemistry exam, just thought you might want to know.**

**Life is pretty okay, I've got a lollipop and hockey in like twenty minutes, and I'm really sorry that this isn't longer, or as angsty as it should've been.**

**BUT THERE SHALL BE MORE**

**My roommates aren't being interesting at the moment, they're watching Made in Chelsea, so yeah.**


	6. Chapter 6

**ITS FREAKING CHRISTMAS BREAK WHICH MEANS HAPPINESS AND WONDER AND SLEEP AND... WRITING!**

_**What's up everybody?**_

**Yeah so I love you all for the attention you've given this story and so this chapter is dedicated to... everyone who reviewed!**

**Because you're awesome, and I'm sure that your life revolves wholly around updates of this story and my author's notes because you worship me. **

**Yeah so thanks guys. This one goes out to you.**

* * *

He could pass it off as sleep, as a dream. But he knows that John will know, will understand. There's not time to pull away, nowhere to escape to because the entirety of himself is John's and he doesn't know quite when it happened, this melding, but he knows that he will never be able to reverse it, and so there's nothing to be done but steal a little bit more of John. He presses a just barely harder towards the give of lips, eyes screwed tight shut against whatever John's expression will tell him.

And then, John is there, completely there, bringing a hand - dragged through the twists of their duvet - to rest, entwining Sherlock's curls with callused fingertips. The hand eases him back, away from the pull of skin and heat. "Sherlock, why are you-" The rough-asphalt drag of his voice is cut off by Sherlock's own. "Please John. Just-" his eyes are still a sealed as possible, cutting out everything around him but the smooth exhales of morning stillness and the radiation of heat from their bodies and the scent of him and John sparking, reacting over and over again in the space behind his eyes.

The idea of what he is asking for is abstract and darting and, "I'm sorry."

His skin is crawling - he's never felt something so literally - shivering over his bones and he needs to get away from the demolition of everything he's built up between them. His elbows leave craters, smoking, in the mattress as he struggles from the wrap of sheets, and, it would seem, a heavy arm heating his stomach. It tightens.

"Where are you going?"

"I'm sorry. There's a trust between friends, to stay friends, and I have broken it."

"Sherlock," the pliant grasp of a palm traces the angle of his jaw and a smile brushes laughter, light, along his words, "You're not going anywhere. We're stuck here until midday, remember?"

An inhale gets latched against the inside of his lungs until he has to remind himself to breathe. "Right. Yes."

He turns, and the ache is lessening with every second that slips from his grasp, and he lets searching lips find his in the dark. "Yes, of course."

The weight still hangs in the bottom of his chest, but it seems almost lighter now.

* * *

**So there's some hapiness just before what's to come.**

**And, on a completely unrelated note...**

** I JUST SAW DESOLATION OF SMAUG. YES I DID. I JUST GOT BACK FROM THE MOVIE THEATER TEN MINUTES AGO AND I SAW IT WITH MY EYES AND IT WAS MAGICAL.**

**So watch it, I beg of you.**

**That is all. xxx**


	7. Chapter 7

**Hey everybody! ONE DAY. THERE IS ONE DAY. **

**ONE DAY.**

**ONE DAY.**

**ONE DAY.**

* * *

The other side of the bed is cold.

Conclusion?

John has been gone for approximately half an hour. Enough time for him to have woken up and made himself tea to have his sexuality crisis over. Enough time for him to have also dressed and left? Perhaps.

Sherlock darts out of bed shoving covers away from the streak of his limbs and grabs his dressing gown as he whirls out of the door and straight into John, whose jumper is now dripping tea steadily.

Sherlock hurriedly steps back, "It doesn't have to- we don't have to change. Its the same, all the same."

John shakes out his hands, hanging them in the air in an attempt to rid them of the hot liquid, "Sherlock, what are you talking about?"

Have they started already? Right.

A feeling, dark, slow, smooth, heavy, drifts up and consumes the cavity of his chest, "I'll delete it."

That is a lie. He will keep it saved and he will pretend like he doesn't know exactly how John's lips feel plush against his own. He ignores John's expression - wide eyed - and bends to pick up the two mugs, one of which is resting in a splatter of ceramic chips.

The two mugs.

Two mugs.

He wraps his fingers very deliberately around the handles, around the smooth curves and traces a thumb over the roughness of the broken rim. John's invisible gaze seems to draw him upwards, legs extending, and then he their gazes are locked. "Oh." Sherlock hates the way his voice sounds so utterly wrecked.

"If that's what you want."

John's chin is up, muscle along the jaw gives a twitch.

A miscalculation.

"No, no. That's not-" one mug hangs from each hand, tea still slicking the sides. "That is not what I want." Its not what I want. I thought you were leaving me. That you hated yourself and, by extension, me. I thought you were going to come back hours from now and be distant and I we would pretend it never happened. I would do that to keep you here and I hate it.

And then John sees. Reads it in his posture and his words and the way his face is completely blank. "Oh."

Sherlock takes a deep breath and brushes past him, setting the mugs down on the kitchen counter beside the sink with a clack that sharpens the air.

John comes up behind him, drawing himself tall, "You don't have to- I want this Sherlock."

And the words, the stupid, hideous, idiotic words won't come out of his mouth, so he has to turn around, back pressed against the counter, and watches John's eyes as he leans closer.

He nudges their mouths together and can't stop the short inhale that catches on the inside of his throat.

John kisses back.

* * *

**This is-**

**let's just call it the calm before the storm.**

**Or maybe the eye of the storm?**

**I was going to jump ahead a little, but I figured I might as well make it more linear. **

**Anyway, for those of you reading this around nowish, HAPPY NEW YEAR!**

**Whenever nowish may be.**

**For you.**

**Sorry I'm just-**

**Ignore me. **

**I'm meant to be writing something for school, but ya know. You guys come first.**

**Love ya all, and may your new years resolutions make your life more fulfilling for the first half of January.**


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